


Loudmouth

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Community: blindfold_spn, Dirty Talk, M/M, Plot What Plot, Rough Sex, Snark, Unbeta'd, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-16
Updated: 2010-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:17:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From this prompt on <a href="http://spn-blindfold.livejournal.com">spn_blindfold</a>:  <i>Sam/Dean dirty talk: Bottom!Sam describes their sex life to the Feds.  Sometime around season 2 or 3, Sam's in an interrogation room with some cop/FBI agent who's trying to convince him to provide evidence against Dean. They ask why Sam's staying with someone who's brought him nothing but trouble, and the cops listen on in horror as Sam calmly replies with a fifteen-minute dissertation on how he's a total slut for Dean's cock. Maybe he's fed up and being sarcastic, maybe he's under a truth spell, maybe he knows he's going to be rescued in an hour and just doesn't give a shit anymore. Maybe it's all true, or maybe Sam's making it up but secretly wishes it were true. Bonus points if Dean somehow hears or sees the interview tape and gets crazy turned-on.  No major embarrassment squick, please -- Sam really doesn't care what the cops think of him. He can be ashamed if *Dean* finds out, as long as Dean enthusiastically sets him straight.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Loudmouth

Seriously, Sam thinks, this is getting fucking boring. He's been in this interview room for going on five hours now, which is more than enough time for Dean to search the station and find the 'lost' victim records they're looking for. It's not like there are all that many places to look. There's only six cops in this town, one hardass-wannabe detective, and most of them are in the room with him. Dean shouldn't have a problem avoiding whatever personnel they have around the office while Sam cools his heels in here.

Next time, he thinks darkly, Dean can be the 'suspicious character brought in for questioning' and Sam will do all the sneaking around. He's better at it anyway.

"I'm gonna ask you one more time," Detective Hardass growls, looming across the table. "We know you've been casing various houses in the neighbourhood. We know you're working with a partner. We know he's here in town. You're gonna give us his name and location, or I'm gonna toss you in the county lockup and forget you ever existed."

If Dean's been distracted by a girl or free doughnuts or something, Sam is going to kill him. Five hours of this shit is four hours and fifty minutes too long. Detective Hardass is about as intimidating as a golden retriever, and the uniforms are all either wet behind the ears or so far past it they should be thinking retirement. The only reason Sam hasn't unpicked his handcuffs and laid the whole room out cold is the tiny, infinitesimal part of him that still holds some respect for the law. That part is fast losing out against his rising irritation, however, and Sam gives it another fifteen minutes before the plan goes out the window and he goes to find Dean.

"You guys should think about repainting," he says, gazing at the ceiling. "Those water stains really bring down the tone of the room."

"Hey!"

Hardass slams both hands down on the table, clearly expecting him to flinch. Sam looks at the guy with mild inquiry and tries to stifle a yawn. He fails, offers a shrug and a careless grin.

"Sorry. Late night last night. You were saying?"

Hardass is visibly grinding his teeth. Normally Sam would feel like an asshole for winding the guy up, but this is the guy who's been letting mysterious deaths go unreported for God only knows how long. Sam's having a hard enough time suppressing the urge to kick over the table and _feed_ the guy his teeth, let alone minding his manners. This prick is like dozens of cops they've tangled with over the years: loud, overbearing ex-high-school-quarterbacks who cling to their glory days by swaggering around town with their hands on their guns like it's the Old West—only he's worse, because he's letting people die just so he doesn't lose his job. This guy is a big fish in a tiny pond who thinks he's got Sam's number, and Sam's had just about enough of his macho posturing bullshit.

"You think I'm joking, hotshot?" Hardass all but spits at him. "You wanna think again. You wanna think real hard about protecting your so-called partner, 'cause I'm betting he wouldn't do the same for you."

He studies Sam for a moment as if this is his cue to break down and start confessing. Sam stares back, not even bothering to pretend interest now, and that apparently winds Hardass up another few notches.

"Jesus Christ!" he explodes. "What the hell is it about this guy, huh? Why are you protecting him? You give him up and you can walk away, kid—he's the one we want, not you. What the _fuck_ is it about him that's got you clammed up tighter than a nun's cunt?"

Sam doesn't mean to laugh. It just bursts out of him, an uncontrollable flare of amusement that makes everyone in the room stare at him in confusion. He subsides after about half a minute or so and takes a deep breath, shaking his head.

"Oh man, I'm sorry," he says. "I wasn't laughing at you—okay, yeah, I was. But dude, seriously, you have no idea how much that phrase tickles me." He grins wide and sincere, dimples on full display. "Considering how much I love it when he fucks me."

* * *

Hardass stares, his mouth opening and closing like a particularly stupid-looking fish. Sam watches with detached interest as his skin goes first pasty-white, then slowly gains colour until his whole head looks like an overripe tomato. Hardass is balding with a bad combover, so the comparison is more than a little apt.

"Did your top-notch detective skills not pick up on that?" Sam asks. "Guess you haven't been watching as closely as I figured. He practically screws me through the mattress most nights." He lets his grin turn a bit wicked, winks at the lone female cop when she makes a muffled sound. "Mornings too. Hell, I'll take it any way I can get it."

"The hell ..." Hardass mutters under his breath. "Look, boy, nobody gives a fuck what filthy shit you two get up to when you're not robbing innocent people blind."

"But you asked me why I stay with him," Sam points out. "I'm just trying to explain. He's hot like you wouldn't believe, plus he's hung like a horse and he fucks like a demon, and I really fucking like it. I mean," he adds in a confidential tone, leaning forward, "have you ever been fucked by a guy who can have multiple orgasms? He can go for _hours_ , man. In-out-in-out, like a fucking piston, swear to God. Best thing I've ever felt in my life. Some days I have trouble walking because he keeps me spread so wide and goes so fucking deep. And he's really fucking good at it, so he gets it right on the button every time. I swear my voice has dropped half an octave from all the screaming."

Five minutes. The room's so quiet Sam can hear himself breathing. Every pair of eyes is fixed on him. The four guys are all open-mouthed, eyes unfocused and glazed over, and the poor woman looks like she's about to faint. Detective Hardass is sporting a visible tent in his cheap polyester pants; Sam averts his eyes so he can keep his lunch where it belongs and goes on.

"To be perfectly honest with you," he continues, "I don't give a damn if he wants to burgle houses or slit throats. Long as he keeps pounding that huge gorgeous cock of his into my ass at every opportunity." He tilts his head and hums thoughtfully. "And then there's all the blowjobs. I really love blowing him. Like I said: multiple orgasms, right? I remember I once sucked his dick for, God, must've been at least three hours before he came. Straight down my throat. Nearly fucking drowned in it. Fucking awesome."

He licks his lips for emphasis and sees two more boners appear under badly pressed uniform pants. The female cop is leaning against the wall at this point, fanning herself with a manila file. Detective Hardass appears ready to blow a fuse of some kind, but now that he's started Sam just keeps on talking, letting it all spill out.

"I gotta tell you, there are days when I just don't want to get out of bed." He pauses, then considers. "Not that we stick to just the bed. He's got this thing for doing me in the shower, which is nice but, y'know, kind of dangerous—he's pretty handsy, likes to manhandle me. And then there's the car. He _really_ likes getting me spread out facedown over the hood, jeans around my ankles and my ass all slick and begging for his dick. I've had so many bruises on my hipbones from that, I've actually lost count.

"My favourite, though," Sam says in the tone of a confession, "is when he lets me ride him. Nice and slow, getting him right up inside me so far I can just about taste it when he comes. So fucking sweet, God, I could do that for days, fuck myself raw on his cock—"

The door to the interview room bursts open, shocking everyone out of their daze. Sam looks over and goes absolutely ice-cold when he sees Dean standing there, gun cocked and ready to open fire on the room, lips in a harsh line and a face like thunder.

"This conversation is _over_ ," Dean announces. He jerks his head at Sam without meeting his eyes. "Out. Now."

Sam tongues the paperclip out of his cheek and unlocks the handcuffs, then crosses the room and edges carefully around Dean, careful not to touch him. He can't help grinning as the lady cop looks Dean up and down, her gaze lingering on his groin until Sam steps in front to block her view. She flushes a pretty pink and looks away, clearing her throat.

"I wanna thank you for your hospitality," Sam says. "I'm sure it's been very educational for all of us."

"Shut the fuck up and get outside," Dean tells him, his voice completely even. "We're done here."

Sam shuts his mouth and goes. He has no idea what to do, how to react; he's never seen Dean like this before, so completely devoid of expression. Dean is locked up tighter than Fort Knox, nothing getting out, nothing getting in—and Sam has always been able to get in. He watches Dean as they back slowly out of the police station, seeing his rigid posture and the way he flat-out refuses to glance in Sam's direction, and the bottom falls out of his gut when he realises.

 _Oh, fuck. He heard me, somehow. Telling them—_

Telling them everything.

This is gonna end messy, Sam can tell.

* * *

The car is as silent as the interview room had been, nothing but road noise and the growl of the engine as Dean floors it out of town. They're not staying here; the police records will provide the information they need, and now that they have those they can hole up a couple of towns over and figure out what's causing the deaths and how to kill it. Sam grips the armrest and the edge of the seat and hopes they actually make it out of town in one piece. Dean is a dark, shadowy figure in the driver's seat, the car whipping them past endless fallow fields so fast Sam can barely make out the fence posts in the headlights.

Every time he looks in Dean's direction, Sam crumples a little more.

Twenty miles pass in a blink, and then they're pulling into the _Restwell Motor Inn_ and Dean is killing the engine. He tosses the keys in Sam's lap and mutters, "Get the stuff," and is striding toward the office before Sam can reply. Sam squeezes the keys until the edges cut into his palm, then sighs and gets out of the car.

He's got the bags piled up next to the trunk when Dean comes back, twirling a room key around his finger. He shoulders his duffel without a word and leads the way to the room. Sam follows slowly, not at all eager for this silent treatment to continue but dreading the explosion he's sure is coming. He has no idea what Dean's going to do, and there's a hollow feeling inside him at the thought that his brother might never even look at him again.

Sam all but slinks into the room, head down and shoulders hunched like he hasn't done in years. He's queasy, waiting for the sucker punch or the extra room key or the invitation to get the hell out of Dean's sight for good. He hasn't felt this ashamed since the first time Dad caught him with his hand down his pants when he was thirteen. He puts his bag down on the bed Dean hasn't claimed and stands at the foot, fidgeting.

"You gonna tell me what that little stunt was all about, or do I have to guess?"

Sam looks up. Dean is on his bed taking his boots off, eyes drilling into Sam, giving nothing of himself away. Sam can't hold that gaze; Dean's as focused as Sam's ever seen him, and that freaks him out and turns him on in equal measures. Sam clears his throat and shrugs, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"I—I don't know what to tell you," he admits. "They were annoying the shit out of me, dude—that asshole detective and his intimidation bullshit that probably works on every guy he pulls in. I just, I don't know, I wanted to rattle his cage. I didn't think you'd hear any of it."

"Right." Dean stands up and shrugs out of his jacket and flannel, slow deliberate movements that make Sam's stomach tighten with tension. "So you figured you'd sit there and tell them all about the marathon sex we have on a nightly fucking basis?"

He stalks across the room in sock feet, dark red tee highlighting the colour along his cheekbones, making his eyes look even greener. Sam takes a step back automatically before he forces himself to hold his ground.

"You weren't supposed to hear," he repeats. He tries to voice an apology, but the lie won't come.

"Funny thing about old buildings," Dean says. "They sometimes have air vents installed in weird places. Makes for some interesting acoustics."

The interview room, Sam recalls abruptly, was right next to the archive room. Which was last on Dean's list of places to search. Which would have put him there at exactly the right time to hear every word he'd said in those last few minutes.

"So now I gotta ask you, Sam." Dean takes two more steps, gets up close in his face. "You want me to fuck you so hard you can't walk for a week?"

* * *

He should say no. He should deny it, laugh it off, apologise and move on. But when Sam opens his mouth to speak, what comes out is,

"Yeah."

Dean plows into him like a linebacker, throwing him bodily against the wall. Sam braces for a fist, but what he gets is Dean plastered against him from chest to knee, granite-hard in his jeans and his hands pinning Sam's wrists. Sam makes a confused noise, reeling from the hard warm weight of his brother's body, and gasps when Dean grinds fast and dirty against his dick.

"Dean—" Sam starts, and gets a sudden mouthful of Dean's tongue, stabbing deep and sending a pulse of lust straight to his groin.

"Shut the fuck up," Dean growls. "Said enough already, Jesus. Gonna pound you right through the fucking wall."

He kisses Sam again, properly this time, deep and wet and owning his mouth. Sam lets out a helpless moan and melts into it, lets Dean press him against the wall and suck on his tongue until he's dizzy. Dean growls again and rips Sam's jacket and button-down off, trapping his wrists in the cuffs momentarily and thrusting hard against his hip through their jeans.

"Fucking bastard," he breathes, when he lets Sam up for air. "You know how long I've wanted this, Sam? _Years_. Fucking killed me when you left, when I saw you with Jess. Thought I'd never—"

He breaks off with a curse and lays a trail of sharp biting kisses down Sam's neck, stripping his shirt and jacket off the rest of the way and shoving up Sam's tee. "Off," he orders. "Wanna get you naked, get my hands all over you before I fuck you stupid. Make you choke on my cock."

Sam shudders and obeys, pulling the tee over his head and letting it drop to the floor. He lets his arms hang, not sure what to do with them, whether he's allowed to touch. Dean strips off his own shirt and moves back in, pushing Sam's knees wide so he fits between and bracing his hands above Sam's shoulders.

"Fucking touch me," he groans, setting up a slow grind of hips. "Jesus Christ, Sam, waited long enough. Drove me crazy with your filthy mouth in that room. I wanna do everything, yeah? Every fucking thing you said."

"M-multiple orgasms," Sam gets out, wrapping his arms around Dean's back. "Hours, Dean. Want you in me all fucking night."

"I'll learn how," Dean promises. "Fuck you so many times you can't stand up. God, the things I wanna do to you ..."

He stops talking then, kisses Sam for what feels like an eternity, getting their jeans open and Sam's shoved down his thighs. Dean's hand on his dick is hot and rough, gun and knife callouses raising shivers all over Sam's body, making him arch and push into the touch. He digs his fingers into Dean's back, scrabbles to get him closer, kicks his jeans off and wraps a leg around Dean's waist so he can thrust against him. Dean lets him get away with it for a few minutes before he pushes Sam away.

"Gotta," he pants, stripping his jeans and socks off, and Sam hurriedly gets out of his own boots. Dean sits on the end of Sam's bed and spreads his knees. "Come here."

Sam's on his knees before he fully processes the words, hands on Dean's thighs as he leans in to get a taste. Dean's cock is fucking pretty, heavy and red-purple with blood, a thin film of fluid coating the head. Dean has one hand on it, jerking slowly; he rubs the head against Sam's lips, pokes it between and throws his head back when Sam moans and sucks hard.

"Fuck. _Fuck_. Sam," he grinds out through his teeth. "Gonna kill me, I swear to God."

Sam nuzzles the shaft, licking along the vein, mouthing Dean's balls and coming back to tongue against the glans. His mouth is watering from the sharp-sour flavour, wanting the whole thick length of it jammed down his throat. He makes a hungry sound when Dean starts to feed it to him, pulling every inch into his mouth and swallowing around it like he can keep it there forever. Dean bites off more curses when he makes an experimental thrust and Sam takes it with another moan.

"Oh God, oh God, oh fuck," Dean chants, setting up a steady rhythm. Sam hollows his cheeks and sucks, spit running from the corners of his mouth, everything inside slick and hard enough to make his ass ache with how empty it feels. He kneels wider and starts jerking himself off while he sucks, feeling Dean's gaze on him and hearing his praise in broken snatches of incoherent words.

Dean pulls out a few minutes later, flushed red all the way down to his chest. His eyes are brilliant, fixed on Sam like he's the only thing worth seeing, the heavy muscles of his chest working as he pants for breath. Sam wipes his free hand over his mouth, still jerking himself off with the other. His mouth feels battered and tender, used up, but when Dean tugs on his hands to pull him up he goes into the kiss without hesitation.

"Love this," Dean says into his mouth. "Fucking love it, okay? Hot as hell, and just ... _Sam_ ," and he can't seem to say anymore but it doesn't matter; Sam understands him perfectly.

"I know," he says. "I know, just—fuck me, okay, Dean," and Dean shudders against him and drags him to his feet.

"Here." He points to the end of the bed. "Hands and knees, right now."

Sam shuffles onto the mattress and gets in position, ass high over the end of the bed. Dean pushes his legs wider and presses down on his lower back, fondles his ass briefly before he scoops up his discarded jeans and pulls a packet of lube from the back pocket. Sam puts his head down on the bed at the first touch of Dean's fingers; two minutes later he's groaning into the comforter and rolling his hips, trying to open wider.

"So ready for me," Dean breathes, kissing along his spine. He bites Sam's shoulder gently. "Yeah?"

"Jesus, fuck, please." Sam spreads his knees as far as he can and pushes his ass back, far past embarrassment now. " _Dean._ "

There's the rustle of a condom wrapper, Dean's bitten-off moan, and then Sam can feel the flared head of his brother's dick pushing against him. He humps back, encouraging, and gets Dean's hand pushing his cheeks open and the exquisite slide of flesh in flesh. Sam hisses and arches his back, arms trembling with strain, every part of him lit up from the sensations. Dean eases in slowly, hands on Sam's hips, then pauses when he's in all the way and runs a soothing hand up his back.

"Okay?"

" _Fuck me_ ," Sam snarls, his patience gone, and shoves back hard.

Dean's answering chuckle is dark, razor-edged, and it raises every hair on Sam's body.

"Just remember, you asked for this," he whispers, and then he starts to fuck.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Loudmouth [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3691044) by [litrapod (litra)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/litra/pseuds/litrapod)




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